The Getaway
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock needs Molly to come away with him for the weekend. Does he have an ulterior motive? Sherlolly


Molly Hooper awoke with a start, and for a brief moment was startled to discover that she was in a moving vehicle. Then, somewhat unfortunately, it all came back to her. She had finished working a double shift at St. Bart's the night before, finishing up at midnight. Returning home, she had lounged in a hot bath for a time, grabbed something light to eat, and finally went to bed in the wee small hours of the morning. In the just slightly less wee small hours, Sherlock had called with a demand that she accompany him to Devon. A village called Ponsworthy, or thereabouts, to be precise, on Dartmoor.

"Sherlock, I'm still sleeping. And I intend to sleep for hours and hours yet. Why do you need me. Take John!"

"John will not serve my purpose. We are supposed to be a loving couple, taking a romantic weekend on the moor. John is not my type."

"Neither am I, remember? Breasts too small? Lips too thin…"

"Molly, must you hold a grudge for so long. And, as I have told you on myriad occasions, I did not say that your breasts were '**too** small', merely that they **are** small. You can hardly argue the point. And I pointed that your lips looked larger with that particular shade of lipstick, not that their size was any problem without such augmentation…"

"Alright, alright! I'm too tired to argue. I can't go, anyway. I have to work…"

"No you don't. You are off until Monday. I know your schedule as well as you do, Dr. Hooper." Sherlock continued on, ignoring Molly's deep sigh, or perhaps taking it as her acquiescence. "I'll pick you up at noon. Please pack accordingly."

"Accordingly, Sherlock?"

"We'll be gone for two nights. Be advised that it is likely to be colder up on the moor, and that heavy rain has been forecast."

"Sounds like lovely weather for a romantic getaway, Sherlock. Cold and damp. My entire love life summed up in one weather forecast."

"Perhaps the forecast will change, Dr. Hooper. One never can tell. Besides, cold and damp outside can make for more heat inside…"

"Sherlock, don't even try double entendres on me, when you would never follow through on even a single entendre."

"Dr. Hooper, I have no idea what you're talking about. Just be packed and ready at noon! You can sleep in the car."

And that was how Molly Hooper wound up in a car speeding down the M5, through a driving rainstorm, heading for one of the most desolate areas in England, with the love of her life, who, she firmly believed, would never gave her a second look unless she was festooned in spare kidneys, diseased livers, damaged hearts, and bejeweled with various fingers and toes for his experimentation. A grizzly picture, indeed!

Molly sat up straight in the passenger seat, yawning slightly, and wiping the sleep from her eyes. "How much further, Sherlock?"

"About another hour before the turnoff to Ponsworthy. Perhaps we should stop for a bite to eat. You must be hungry."

"I could eat something, I guess. And perhaps you should brief me on this case, Sherlock. You really haven't said anything about it…"

"Nothing much you need to know, Molly. My client wishes to remain anonymous. He thinks he may be in some danger this weekend, and that my presence, even on a pretended holiday with my significant other, may ameliorate that danger. By the end of the weekend, due to extraordinary circumstances, the point will be moot, and the crisis period will be over."

"So, all you have to do is show up, make yourself visible, and your job will be done?"

"Correct!"

"Your client has such faith in the mere presence of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, that he has paid you to take a vacation?"

"It appears so. I am, after all, gaining quite a reputation, Molly."

"And I'm here because…"

"I've told you, Molly. You are the reason for the romantic getaway! It would raise suspicion if I showed up at an inn catering to couples all alone."

"Not to someone who knows you. Only strangers wouldn't realize how truly enamored with yourself you are!"

"Very funny, Dr. Hooper." Sherlock tried to sound wounded, but the smile betrayed him. "But I think I can muster up enough moony-eyed adoration directed at you to fool the yokels."

Molly looked at the detective with not some small amount of trepidation. She was not sure of how much "moony-eyed adoration" she could take without fainting.

By the time they had eaten a small meal at a local pub, the rain, and wind, had increased dramatically. Reaching the small hamlet of Ponsworthy, and its romantic inn, had then taken almost twice as long as expected, and they were both tired and tense by the time they arrived. Finding parking in a small lot adjacent to the building, Sherlock gathered their two small bags, and shepherded Molly into a surprisingly dark reception room, lit with candles.

"Mr. Holmes, I expect!", the landlord greeted them. "It's not a fit night out there for man nor beast! I was getting a bit worried that you wouldn't make it!"

"May I ask if the candlelight is meant to be part of the ambience, or is there a more practical reason?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.

"Power's out, I'm afraid. But, not to worry. This place had been here for many a year before electricity. One night without it won't do any harm. All the rooms have a supply of candles, and a fireplace. I'm afraid the central heating is not working, so the water will be cold." He then looked at Molly appreciatively, and continued, with a wink and a smile, "More excuse for cuddling, if you know what I mean."

"I do indeed, sir. Perhaps you should charge extra for the convenience of this inconvenience?" Sherlock teased him.

The jovial landlord couldn't tell whether the Londoner was having him on, or not, but he handed over the key to a room upstairs, and said, "If you leave your bags here, I'll have Mickey bring them up to your room, and start a nice fire for you. There'll be plenty of wood to see you through the night, and the power will probably be restored by morning." Here, he looked a little doubtful, but tried to cover it with a display of bonhomie. "Have a seat by the fire in the lounge, and I'll have the missus bring you some mulled wine to warm your bones."

Sherlock thanked him, and Molly toward the lounge. It was getting a bit later in the evening, and Molly's fatigue was beginning to get the better of her. They sat in front of the fire without removing their coats, and surveyed the room. The were three other couples in the lounge, sipping wine and talking quietly, in varying degrees of intimacy. Sherlock wished that one couple in particular would find their ways upstairs, and was not at all surprised when the man in question pulled the giggling woman to her feet and quickly guided her to the stairway.

"One down, two to go!" Molly muttered.

"You're not counting us, Molly?" Sherlock rose from his seat to position himself on the rug at Molly's feet, directly in front of the fireplace, and, surprisingly, took one of her hands in his. He moved the hand to his lips, and planted a gentle kiss. Molly leaned over to whisper in his ear, "Is this the moony-eyed adoration part, Sherlock?"

"Perhaps," the detective smiled up at her as she sipped her warm spiced wine. Molly looked down at his seductive smile, and thought to herself, _I was right, I just might faint!_

After helping themselves to some cold sandwiches provided by the landlady, followed by another mulled wine, they made their way upstairs to what they hoped would be a warm room. Molly had never seen anything so romantic. It was almost the Disney version of romance, overdone and definitely cliched. But just because something was a cliche, didn't make it authentic. Candlelight gently illuminated the room. The duvet had been pulled back to reveal soft and comfy quality bed linen. A fire was blazing in the fireplace, while the rain beat against the windows. Molly could almost hear Bronte's Heathcliff calling to his Catherine over the howl of the wind.

"Well, I suppose this will do," Sherlock said, immediately killing the romance. Still a bit chilly in here, don't you think? I suppose it takes a while for the room to warm. Or it could be the draft coming from the windows," he continued, examining the ancient windowpanes. "I'll change first, if you don't mind, Molly. I suppose it will take you longer." He then grabbed his small bag and disappeared into the ensuite bathroom.

Molly removed her coat, and sat dejectedly on the bed. It was a bloody shame to waste such a romantic atmosphere on the likes of Sherlock Holmes, she had decided. This was the kind of place happy couples went to share some time together. Or illicit twosomes snuck away to to escape prying eyes. In any event, she'd wager that a lot more usually went on in this bed than just sleeping, which was all she had to look forward to! She fished her night clothes, toothbrush, and hairbrush out of her bag and waited for Sherlock to vacate the bathroom.

The door opened just a moment later, and the detective appeared, silhouetted by the candlelight behind him. He was wearing pajama bottoms only, his curls obviously tousled by the removal of his shirt. His pale skin shimmered in the dim light, and Molly averted her eyes to glance down at the floor. His feet were bare. Molly couldn't remember ever seeing his feet uncovered before. _Even his feet were attractive,_ she thought. _Dear god, now I'm developing a foot fetish. I'm doomed!_

"Molly, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock. But aren't you going to be cold? Didn't you bring a full set of pajamas?"

"Molly, this was a concession to your sensibilities. I usually sleep in the nude."

Molly closed her eyes, trying to erase the picture from her mind, while simultaneously trying not to. She finally rose from the bed with a sigh, and walked past him and into the bathroom. When she returned, Sherlock was lying on his back under the covers, arms behind his head. He studied her carefully, from her flannel pajamas bottoms, to her oversized tee shirt, to the fluffy socks on her feet.

"Ah, yes, Dr. Hooper, just the attire for a hot romantic getaway!"

"Had I been expecting a 'hot romantic getaway', I would have dressed accordingly, Sherlock!"

"But even socks, Molly. Are you afraid I have a foot fetish?", he asked with a sly smile. Molly swore, and not for the first time, that the man could, indeed read her mind. Sherlock pulled back the covers to allow Molly to climb in next to him. She shivered as she did so, not entirely due to the cold. A few moments passed before Molly spoke. "I'm still cold, Sherlock. And if I'm cold, you must be freezing!"

"Do you have some suggestion, Dr, Hooper. Some idea about how we could conserve body heat?"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, that sounds like some line from a silly romantic comedy!"

"Perhaps it was used so often because it worked."

"How do you mean, 'worked', Sherlock?"

"Do stop dithering, Molly, and move closer. I guarantee you'll feel warmer."

Molly slowly moved her body closer to that of the detective, to stretch out side to side. He was absolutely correct. She was much warmer, though she was not sure that the condition was entirely due to any conservation of body heat.

"Molly, were you a Girl Guide as a child?"

"Yes, I was. Why do you ask?"

"Well, this position is a bit warmer, but in my brief days as a boy scout, I was taught to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together. I'm sure the girl guides covered the same topic. It would seen that some kind of motion, and the accompanying friction, is required to rally produce heat…"

But Molly had given up listening, as Sherlock was now positioned halfway on top a her, nuzzling her neck, his day's growth of beard surely providing friction. And definitely heat! One of his hands was currently playing with her hair, while the other made its way down to her hip. "Molly, you were right about my lack of pajama top. My back is quite frigid. Perhaps if you were to run your hands across it?"

Molly complied as if in a daze, moving her arms around his torso, and running her hands over the chill expanse of his toned back. "Ah, much better, don't you think?" Sherlock murmured into her ear as continued his attentions. "Yes," was all she managed to squeak out before his mouth captured hers, and Molly could definitely feel how warm it was becoming in the previously chilly room. By the time his hand slipped beneath the waistband of her pajamas, she knew they were on their way to a rather spectacular conflagration. The first of three they ignited that night, it turned out.

The morning dawned gray and colorless, but also rainless. And the room was comfortably warm, even without the feel of Sherlock's body next to her. She could hear him in the bathroom, taking a shower, indicating the return of hot water. When he returned to the bedroom, with only a towel wrapped around him, she couldn't think of a thing to say. He removed the towel, and climbed back into the bed. "Cat got your tongue, Dr. Hooper?, he said teasingly.

Sherlock climbed on top of her once again, pressing her into the mattress, fondling every portion of her anatomy he could reach, planting new love bites on places he felt he may have missed the previous night. "Sherlock, shouldn't we be out and about, showing off your presence for the benefit of your anonymous client?"

"Not necessary, I assure you," he mumbled as he continued to nuzzle her neck. "The danger is over, the crisis has passed."

"That's all you're going to tell me, you git?"

"I told you, Molly. I wish to remain anonymous!"

"You were the mysterious client? You bloody arsehole! Why did you drag me all the way to Dartmoor? In the bloody rain?"

"Really, Molly, does the rain matter? Do you really intend to do any sightseeing?" Sherlock snickered at her pique. "This is a lot more comfortable than Baker Street. And it's much harder for you to make your getaway in the middle of one of the most desolate areas in England. You couldn't exactly make a run for the nearest tube station, could you?"

"Sherlock Holmes, you really are a bloody git!"

"I've been told that on occasion, quite a few times by you, Molly. But you should also consider the fact that my overprotective brother has, in the past, installed video cameras at my flat. Supposedly, he has removed them. But with Mycroft involved, I always find it better to be safe than sorry. Would you really want our activities of last night recorded for posterity?" Molly blushed furiously. "I thought not!"

"Oh my god, Sherlock. What if there are still cameras there? How about my flat? He had me under surveillance while you were away…"

"Relax, Molly. I'll make sure there is no more surveillance. I'll take it to a higher authority."

"Higher than Mycroft? Who? The Prime Minister? 

"What makes you think the PM is a higher authority than Mycroft, love. No, I was speaking of Mummy. If a call her now, it should all be straightened out by the time we get home tomorrow evening."

"You're so sure she'll cooperate, Sherlock? After all, from what I've heard, she can be a bit overprotective, too."

"If she wants grandchildren, she'll cooperate, Molly. Now, you're beginning to feel a bit cold. How about I warm you up a bit?"

"Sherlock, really, again?"

"You **do** know I'm an addict, Molly. And I have decided that you are my new, final drug of choice. You're not going to send me to rehab again, are you?"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Sherlock. It seems I've become a bit of an addict myself." And with that the two entered into a blissful state of co-dependency.


End file.
